


Arias and Bar Bathrooms

by RavenAurelieChoiseau



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), steter - Fandom
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Derek Hale mentioned - Freeform, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Public Blow Jobs, Quiet Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Steter - Freeform, alternative universe, not sure what this is, uncut Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 18:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16023152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/pseuds/RavenAurelieChoiseau
Summary: The one where Peter Hale is a struggling opera singer and Stiles Stilinski plays French horn in an orchestra (with a side job in translating). Stiles get horny and Peter gives him a blow job in a public restroom. Too bad someone walks in on them....Stiles has stopped paying attention again. Now he’s horny. “Hey Peter?”“Yes, my love?” Stiles leans over, whispering into his ear. “Suck me off in the bathroom. I’m horny as hell.” Peter Hale grins. “Let’s go.”Canon divergence in an AU Setting.





	Arias and Bar Bathrooms

Stiles and Peter meet every Wednesday for lunch at the Fox Bar. Though they live together, they enjoy the custom of a fixed lunch date.  
Fox Bar is a neighbourhood joint with questionable taste in decor, and even more ambiguous standards of hygiene. The menu is decent and varied (though anything with mayonnaise or egg is considered “dodgy” and to be avoided at all costs).  
The service is slow, the coffee mediocre, and with the anti-smoking law one can’t even suck on a cig inside anymore. Every week Peter asks Stiles why they come to this dump, and Stiles replies by complaining about the apathetic and incompetent staff. It’s their ritual. The following week they are always back. It has become a challenge of resistance.  
  
Today Peter arrives late, and Stiles is already seated outside, chatting to the neighborhood drunk at the next table. Peter nods a salute as he sits down, mentioning to his love that Dan must have been drinking his lunch for quite some time now, judging by the shade of crimson on his face. Dan, haggard and hard of hearing, raises his half-empty glass at them and goes back to staring at the ashtray positioned in front of him.  
Stiles leans in for a kiss, and Peter obliges. The brunette lets his tongue linger longer than normal on Peter’s lower lip, and the older man lets a low whimper escape his mouth.  
  
“How was your morning?” Peter enquires.  
“I’m bored,” Stiles huffs. "We're playing Mahler again." His knee bounces under the table.  
“I see.” He removes his scarf and drapes it over the back of his chair. Stiles decides it would be fun to dissect Peter’s outfit, noting that the wool jumper might be a little too much for the summer temperatures they have been having. Peter is aghast.  
“Since when do you judge MY fashion sense?” he replies with a roll of his azure eyes. “You, Stiles Stilinski, who lives in flannels and jeans. You’re a disgrace in the fashion capital of Italy.”  
Stiles guffaws, “If you only knew how much I’ve been sweating today you wouldn’t offend me by wearing cashmere.”  
Peter speaks to Stiles in English though when feeling more expressive he has been known to use Italian and French. Both he and Stiles speak four languages, and sometimes for fun they try to alternate sentence by sentence.  
Today is not one of those days. Peter is visibly irritated and uncomfortable.  
“Take off the sweater,” Stiles suggests, but Peter only shakes his head. “No, I’m committed now. Cashmere until death by perspiration.”  
"You're absurd."  
The brunette can only shake his head. “I hope you aren’t going to be heavy today” Stiles adds, throwing Peter a hard look as he unwraps his cigarettes with his long, pianist fingers.  
Without asking him what’s wrong, Stiles lights the end of his cancer stick.  
Peter ignores the gesture and goes on a tirade about how his nephew, the theatre director, is an ass.  “How can I be expected to do my job under these conditions, and how dare he pass me over for the lead part? I helped raise that boy.”  
As usual, Stiles listens patiently and nods where appropriate. He has heard all this many times before.  
"Can we order?" the brunette interrupts. "I have an awful translation to do and as much as I don’t want to do it, the sooner I finish the better. I'd rather not have lunch at 4 pm again, love.”

Stiles is the exact opposite of Peter. He is a serial procrastinator, and knowing this he pushes himself to get everything out of the way, especially when something is painful or unpleasant to do. He suffers from terrible anxiety and can’t sit still for over ten minutes. This has put his French horn chair in the Verdi Orchestra in peril on more than one occasion.   
“Fine,” Peter replies as he waves his hand nervously, his own cigarette now burning. His attempt at getting the attention of a waiter is successful. Nevertheless, the weekly ‘What a dump’ and ‘I can’t believe the staff here’ are uttered.

Finally, they order _and_ get their food, which Stiles practically inhales and Peter barely touches. They wash it all down with house red wine, and after two glasses Stiles is already rose-cheeked. His beautiful cinnamon eyes sparkle.

“Is it not about 300 degrees out here?” he asks as he fans himself with a paper napkin.  
“That’s just the wine, caro” Peter notes with a grin. He loves tipsy Stiles. If he didn’t have to go back to the theatre for a rehearsal, he would take him back to the apartment and tear his clothes off.

“So, I wasn’t really paying attention before. What is the fuss all about this time?” Stiles asks.  
The question lights the pyre inside Peter again and his eyes blaze with rage.  
“That director nephew of mine will be the end of me. The end of me I mean!” His tenor voice vibrates in his chest and rises in an emotional crescendo.  
“He knows I have been trying to get back on stage. I can’t just teach voice forever. More importantly I don’t _want_ to teach voice forever. He hates me and is doing everything in his power to stop me from advancing. You’ll see, I’ll end up an old man singing in church productions on Sunday afternoons.”

“How melodramatic,” thinks Stiles.  
“Baby, you know you have a great voice. You know you can sing. You have to stay positive and fight for what you want. Assert yourself. This business is dog eat dog, and you, at the moment, are fresh meat. Don’t let Derek exclude you. You’ve got to find a new manager, too.”  
Stiles takes another drag, blowing the smoke up into the air above his head.  
Peter gazes at him lovingly.

“Do you remember when you first fell for me?”  
“Oh no,” Stiles thinks. “He’s getting broody again.”  
Stiles grabs Peter’s wrist, bringing his free hand to his lips. He gently kisses his love’s fingertips.  
“Yes, my pet. I do.”

Stiles met Peter when he first moved to Milan. Stiles had come to study piano and French horn at the conservatory, and he was renting a flat on the northwest side of the city with another musician. That summer, when he opened the windows, he could discern a voice. Someone, a man, would sing opera daily. Sometimes he would just be practicing scales, but at other times he would weave the most beautiful arias.  
Stiles wasn’t the most avid lyric opera fan, but he had played for many years and could recognize most of the melodies. His voice, this mystery man’s voice, would bellow...expand, float through the air into his windows, caressing his ears. Some days it would surround him with a warmth, a sensation of well-being and serenity he hadn’t felt in years.

Days passed and he would linger near the open windows, just soaking in the music or resting his arms on the sill, dreaming.  
Dreaming. Something he had almost forgotten how to do. He had forgotten what it was like to allow his mind to wander, to think about faraway places and new people.  
Stiles wondered what the opera singer was like. Just a few weeks later he would find out, much to his surprise the meeting would be purely casual and through a mutual friend who would introduce him to the older, handsome performer. The same Peter Hale that would become his husband a year later.  
  
“I’m glad we moved out of that part of town,” Stiles muses.  
Peter nods. “Me too. I can breathe here. I couldn’t there.”  
“Uh-huh.” He’s stopped paying attention again. Now he’s horny.  
“Hey Peter?”  
“Yes, my love?”  
Stiles leans over, whispering into his ear. “Suck me off in the bathroom. I’m horny as hell.”  
Peter Hale grins, never one to turn down public sex. "Let's go."  
  
First Stiles gets up, stopping at the register to pay. When he disappears into the washroom, Peter waits an appropriate amount of time and then follows.  
The bar bathroom isn’t large. The men’s room only has two stalls plus the urinals. Stiles is already waiting in the one furthest from the door. His fly is open, long, lazy strokes pulling his extra skin up over the glans. The vein pulsates against his palm, his member turgid and needy.  
Peter pushes the door in, then locks it behind him. At the sight of Stiles’ flushed cock, erect and glistening in desire, his own shoots up.  
Stiles looks down dreamily at Peter as he lowers himself to the swollen head, light blue eyes framed within long lashes staring back. He rakes his fingers through his lover’s dark brown hair, pushing him onto the throbbing dick. Peter’s tongue lays flat against the bottom of his shaft as he slides him down to the back of his throat.  
“Oh fuck yeah,” Stiles bucks, the heat enveloping his privates. Peter bobs on his crotch, alternating heavy suction with swirly, protracted licking. His hands squeeze Stiles’ perfect ass as he goes back to being nose-deep in pubes.  
Peter’s throat makes a gurgle as Stiles fucks it. The thrusts are even, calculated almost.  
“Fuck, yes… yes… Peter fuck,” Stiles moans, unable to control his laments. The coil of heat builds in his lower belly. Jesus, Stiles can’t wait to cum. His balls feel so full.   
The seesaw of Peter's head continues, his eyes watering and chin dripping in saliva, until Stiles skirts the edge.   
“Peter…shit… I’m close.”  
The tenor retracts, wrapping his reddened lips around the tip. Peter's grunt reverberates around Stiles' prick and that’s when someone walks in.  
One of the customers goes to use the urinal, unaware of what is happening behind him. The men freeze.  
Peter’s expression says clearly “I’m not stopping but you don’t make a fucking sound, Stilinski.”  
  
Stiles puts a hand over his mouth, inhaling sharply, as his love sucks his crown like a lolly. Peter makes it purposely slow and deliberate. Stiles is dripping in sweat now.   
“Fuck,” the brunette mouths. His eyes roll into the back of his head as Peter adds a hand twist to the mix.  
The customer is taking fucking forever. It is he?   
Peter pays no mind... he is very enthusiastically tugging right below the glans as he passes his muscle over the brunette's slit. He is quite enjoying watching Stiles' torture as the young man is usually very vocal.   
Stiles grabs a handful of Peter’s hair, in part to distract himself, and guides his movements, whispering “Faster. Harder. So close.”  
Whoever is outside is washing his hands, whistling as he does so.  
“What the fuck is he doing so long?” Stiles thinks in annoyance. He stifles a groan, one eye observing his husband with his fat cock in his mouth, the other shut tight.   
"Mmm," he almost gives himself away. There is a list of expletives he'd love to shout right now, but he bites into the corner of his pink lips instead.   
A few more seconds and he decides he can’t put it off any longer. The delay has become painful. He relaxes, Stiles’ dick twitches, and the spasm shakes his entire body. Peter gets a mouthful of his love’s spunk, viscous and briny as it goes down.  
"Fucccckkk," he hisses...the most phonic he has been so far.   
  
Stiles uses the stall wall for balance, his knees going weak when Peter cleans off his cock with his ruddy lips.  
He sinks down, mouth agape in ecstasy. Peter lingers near him, making a “shh” sign with his index finger, indicating the continued presence of the third man in the room.   
Peter’s on the brink of orgasm, and he won’t waste the opportunity over some guy who is probably now pretending to comb his fucking hair so he can get off on eavesdropping.  
  
“Open up,” Peter breathes into Stiles’ ear, returning to a standing position. He removes his aching cock, mauve and moist at its pronouned tip, points it at Stiles’ mouth, and rubs one out. The skin makes a slapping sound but at this point Peter can’t be bothered to care. If the perv at the sink is enjoying this, so be it.  
He’s so excited it takes about four strokes before he’s milking his sperm onto the brunette’s wide, waiting tongue.  
“Jesus Christ,” he manages when he hears the intruder has finally left.  
“Fuck Stiles, FUCK,” he mews. Stiles swishes the cum around on his tongue but Peter isn't done yet.   
Stiles’ face gets coated in Peter’s last two spurts, the release more liquid than Stiles’.  
  
“Baby,” the brunette pants, using his fingertips to scoop up the cum on his cheeks, “that was fucking hot. I should pretend to be mute more often.” He licks it off his digits before wiping the rest with toilet paper.  
Peter zips up, chest heaving. He offers Stiles his hand. “Next time we do this at the theatre bathroom. The opposite, though. I want you louder than you’ve ever been.”  
Peter winks and Stiles chuckles. “You want to give Derek an earful, do you?”  
The tenor kisses him, nodding against his cheek. “I want him to hear what it’s like to fuck you into the wall.”  
“Sounds like a plan,” the brunette murmurs. “I’m always game for the diabolically delicious, especially when messing with your nephew is involved.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. All I know is I enjoyed writing it and I could totally see Peter being arrogant enough to be a tenor opera singer.


End file.
